


i'm miss sugarpink (liquor liquor lips)

by makemelovely



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/M, Making Out, Not Canon Compliant, Pink - Freeform, Suicidal Thoughts, agatha's tragic backstory, but like kinda canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 12:27:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14020242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makemelovely/pseuds/makemelovely
Summary: Agatha Wellbelove, and how she isn't as good as everybody perceives she is.





	i'm miss sugarpink (liquor liquor lips)

Agatha Wellbelove is seven and a half years old, and she’s just gotten a pony for her birthday. She simply adores riding him around the sprawling grounds of her mansion. As they ride past the woods, she imagines dragging her fingers along the very green leaves until her fingers turn green.

 

She dreams sometimes of an older her with sad eyes and lovely golden curls. She’s quite pretty, and she wears a pink sweater.

 

* * *

 

 

Agatha is eleven when she meets Simon Snow for the first time. He holds his grimy hand out, and she knows that this moment is crucial. Her politician mother has groomed her to be the chosen one’s trophy wife ever since they discovered he existed a few months before term began. He’s wearing a red hoodie, and Agatha can’t help but comment on it. “Your hoodie doesn’t match your trousers, which by the way, are too baggy for your frame. Perhaps you should get them taken in at the tailor’s.” Agatha suggested helpfully, sniffing even as she gracefully takes his hand.

 

She thinks that maybe she’s supposed to feel a spark of something the moment their fingers touch, but all she feels is the nervous sweat of an adolescent boy. It’s disgusting, really. 

 

Simon smiles at her, all nerves and awkward endearment. Agatha musters a smile, and pretends to find him interesting. “I’m Agatha Wellbelove.” Agatha shares, remembering what she’s meeting him for.

 

“I’m Simon Snow.” He tells her, shoving his hands in his pockets.

 

_ I know.  _ Agatha thinks about telling him, but she decides not to. It might put him off, and Agatha’s future is riding on this. Her mother says so. “Pleasure to meet you, Simon Snow.” Agatha makes sure her smile is extra sparkly, reaching over and adjusting the sleeve of his hoodie. It had been haphazardly pushed up to his elbow while the other one remained at his wrist. It didn’t look right, and the Chosen One needed to look immaculate.

 

“The pleasure is all mine.” Simon says in a peculiar combination of stiffness and looseness. As if he doesn’t trust her, but wants to. It’s confusing and Agatha doesn’t like it.

 

Agatha nods demurely, allowing a blush to flash across her high cheekbones. Her mother told her that her cheekbones were a genetic blessing, as were the rest of her unnaturally good looks. Out of the corner of her eyes, she sees Baz skulk by, glaring fiercely at Simon.

 

Agatha’s blush turns real, and everything is changing.

 

* * *

 

 

Agatha likes pink because it’s soft. It isn’t hostile like red or melancholy like blue. It’s gentle, and it makes Agatha look pretty. Agatha likes pretty pink dresses that flow out around her waist and end at her skinny knees. She also likes sweaters, large and fluffy and incredibly soft. Agatha is also partial to cardigans; she likes that they keep her warm and cool at the same time.

 

Agatha likes pink because it makes her feel safe.

 

* * *

 

 

Simon asks her out, and Agatha has to say yes. No, she isn’t dying to say yes. It’s not her choice, not really. Her mother sends a letter, and Agatha beams with pride at her mother’s words. Agatha agrees. Of course she does. What else could she say? No? Preposterous. Agatha never mentions that her mother is actually the one who says yes, and Simon never asks. Although, of course, Simon never asks.

 

Why would he?

 

* * *

 

 

Simon is perfect, and so is Agatha. She isn’t actually perfect. Sometimes her tears smudge her makeup and she still wobbles in really high heels and her smile sometimes looks fake and it often is.

 

Agatha bakes him cookies, and they look burnt. Simon chokes them down with a forced smile, and he lies about good they taste. Agatha pretends she doesn’t notice, and she kisses him. She wonders why he can’t tell her that they taste like shite. Baz would be able to. Stuffy Penelope Bunce would be able to. Why can’t he?

 

“Aggie, you’re so good.” Simon whispers one night, his fingers laced around hers. Usually he is so warm, but now she burns cold.

 

Agatha doesn’t say anything to him, can’t breathe because she is so  _ good _ .

 

* * *

 

 

Agatha kisses Baz as if he’ll save her from her spotless reputation. She kisses him because he’ll turn her spotless reputation to a mud soaked paper. Agatha slides her hands against his cheeks, shivers because he’s not as warm as Simon. In fact, he’s colder than Agatha. His mouth devours hers, kissing her senselessly.

 

His mouth moves to her neck, and she wonders if he’ll bite her. If he’ll drain her dry. If he’ll finally kill her like she’s wanted for years.

 

Maybe that’ll save her from perfection. It’s crushing her, and she can’t quite breathe anymore.

 

* * *

 

 

“I love you.” Simon tells her, holding her hand and looking deep in her blue eyes.

 

_ Why?  _ Agatha wants to scream.  _ Because I am so good? _

 

She really isn't. Why can’t anybody see that?

 


End file.
